Cheeky to cheeky
by Hetep-Heres
Summary: Sybil teaches Tom to dance. Or at least she tries to, but it is not really his thing. Humour and Fluff. Written as a Christmas gift for Magfreak


**Cheeky to cheeky**

"WHAT?!"

Tom Branson's exclamation rang out in his mother's flat. "What do you mean, '_you'll have to ask my sisters for a dance'_?"

He looked in disbelief at his fiancée. In disbelief, and with a hint of horror.

She held his gaze and didn't blink. In fact, she even looked a bit amused.

"Of course" she simply answered. "They are the bride's sisters. The groom must share a dance with each of his sisters-in-law. Especially as the bride's mother and grandmothers won't be there" she added doing her best to hide a sigh of sadness.

Tom missed that hint of blighted hope. His mind was elsewhere: thank God the dowager countess had politely turned down their wedding invitation, he suddenly thought and gave thanks for this to the Almighty. He just couldn't imagine having to… with… Well, that was a moot point anyway.

"No", he simply stated.

"How, 'no'?" Sybil asked in a slightly raising tone of voice.

_Ooops, temper's rising,_ Tom noticed. _Better watch out._

"Can't" he laconically told her as an explanation.

Which apparently did _not_ explain anything.

"Can't… what?" she asked, a bit puzzled.

He shuffled the tip of his right shoe on the moth-eaten wooden floor, and briefly looked down. But soon he raised his head again: after all, there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of!

"Dance" he simply supplied.

Sybil seemingly had some difficulties to both grasp the concept and follow the conversation with so few snippets of sentence from his part.

"Would you mind making full sentences, please?" she asked in a slightly warning tone, "Or at the very least say more than one word at a time?"

_Careful, there, careful,_ he thought, _she's getting _not_ pleased, here…_

"I don't dance" he warily said.

"You don't dance?" she repeated nonplussed, quite thrown by his answer.

This time _she_ was unbelieving.

"I can't dance" he confirmed.

First, she didn't say anything. She seemed to be slowly processing the news. But she was still puzzled by it.

"How comes…?" she finally asked in a low voice.

"Well, I've never learned, 'tis all…"

_All_, but apparently not enough for Sybil Crawley, who simply couldn't quite fathom how anyone could reach nearly thirty and never have found himself in a situation requiring him to dance. A ball, an afternoon in a dance hall, a party, a tea dance, an open-air local dance, a family wedding, the Servants' Ball…

"You've never learned?" Oh God! She suddenly realised her conversation skills were being quite awful right now, all she could do being foolishly repeating what he had just said. She really should snap out of it!

"But every young boy or girl enjoys a dance every now and then…" she developed. "I mean, what were you doing on your days off, or after work or school when you were younger? Didn't you ever go out, with or without your siblings, meet friends? Did you just stay home?"

"Of course not! But I'll have you know that there's not much dance in political rallies" he deadpanned.

Rallies. Figures.

"Lack of female partners, I guess?" she said, playing along.

"At least in the left-wing rallies, my love. Are there many more by the Tories' ones?" he asked her.

"How would I know?" she shot back with a smile, teasingly raising her eyebrows.

And her teasing worked: he took a step closer to her, their feet now touching, and he slightly bent his head, slowly aiming at her quirked lips.

The moment she saw his head lean down, she knew he was going to kiss her.

No. In fact, the moment she saw him step closer she knew he would kiss her.

_Hmmm_. So good. So soft. So warm. So deliciously moist. Exquisite.

Yes, _exquisite_ was the word, she thought.

They both were unwilling to part, so they deepened their kiss. She seized his upper arms and gently dug her fingers in the material of his white shirt, and underneath it, in his flesh. She felt his left hand awkwardly wander near her right hip, while the fingers of his other hand were grazing the fabric of her blouse on her left shoulder. She burrowed her tongue further in his mouth and stroked the roof of his palate with the tip of it.

_Delicious_.

She let out a small sigh, and clung to him from head to toe. The rest of the world had faded. Mrs Branson's flat had faded. Everything that wasn't Tom and herself had faded.

Their joined tongues were the centre of the world. Everything revolved around that. Tom and Sybil. Sybil and Tom. Sharing the same mouth. The same breath. The same soul?

Her tongue was now grazing the back of his front teeth, then it soon was caressing the inside of his cheek, before coming back to dance with his own tongue.

Through their joined mouths, while she was invading his, she could feel the coolness of his intakes of breath. And then the tickle of his breeze-like breathing out on her skin, on her cheek.

Hands, cheeks, lips, noses and tongues dancing together, on the same rhythm.

_Dancing_.

Wow-wow-w-w-wait a second!

She suddenly took a step back and gently pushed him away, therefore setting them apart and breaking the kiss in doing so. The only contact between them was now her hands on his arms. The change of situation was so brusque that Tom was still open-mouthed – literally – his eyes blinking in his effort to fathom what was happening and why he hadn't Sybil in his arms and mouth anymore…

This sight would have been quite comical to any external onlooker, but Sybil lost the funny side of it, too busy looking suspiciously at him to notice the ridiculous look on his face.

"Tom Branson!" she exclaimed pointing a finger at his chest, "you thought I would fall for your little wily diversion, you mischievous cunning fox, didn't you?"

He smirked and then cocked an eyebrow, in a totally unconvincing impersonation of fake innocence. But his little _I-don't-know-what-you-mean_ face didn't fool her in the least.

"What?" he asked, trying hard to sound as ingenuous as he could.

"Oh, don't act the innocent here, Mr Branson! You thought I would become so enthralled by your kissing skills that I'd forget all about what we were just talking about, didn't you?"

His cocky grin came back, along with that complacent look on his face she had learned to know rather well since she met him, and which both annoyed her to no length and enticed her more than she would like it to. It attracted her, tempted her, moved her insides more than it should. The power this man had on her whole being was both incredible and absolutely infuriating.

Well, the man _himself_ was sometimes infuriating. Like right now. Then why did she so much want to kiss him again on the spot and straightaway?

_Keep a cool head, Sybil Crawley, you've got a matter at hand to attend to. And you won't give it up in exchange for a kiss._ Or kisses. Even wonderful, mind-blowing, spellbinding kisses.

But while internally repeating this, she was looking straight at his lips. His reddening, slightly glossy quirked lips.

But she won't, will she?

God, she was hopeless!

_Snap out of it, Sybil!_

And she did. Snap out. Not give in. His spell would _not_ get the better of her will. She would _not_ get all mind-boggled by him nor by his kisses. Nor his lips. Or hands. Or tongue.

"But you _did_ forget, didn't you?" he rhetorically asked her, grinning in a very self-satisfied manner. "At least for some time, it worked; don't pretend otherwise…" Yes, at this precise moment Tom Branson looked very much like the cat that ate the canary.

And Sybil equally wanted to kiss those infuriatingly attractive lips and to wipe this exasperating smirk off his face.

"Well, grin while you can, mister" she told him. His smile didn't falter. "Oh, don't look that smug! You certainly won't be that pleased with yourself in a short while" she added to gently deflate this swellhead a little.

At these words, Tom suddenly looked a bit more uncertain. He knew she wouldn't give up: he would have to learn some dancing, he had no way out of it.

"Now, put your hands on my shoulders" she ordered. He looked blankly at her. "At the double!" she added.

He swiftly complied. Better not get her cross. She meant business, he finally could see that.

* * *

"Hey! Easy, there! My foot is no clutch pedal!"

"Sorry darling" he apologised. "Problem is, I can't see it. Nor mine, for that matter" he added by way of explanation. "Besides, what would you know about clutch pedals?"

"Err– something to be found somewhere in a car?" she tried. "Near the driver's feet?"

"And…?"

"Err– that's pretty much what I can guess about it…" she admitted.

"You never were quite interested in motors, beyond getting inside, travelling in, and then getting out. I once offered to teach you a bit about cars and driving, remember?"

"I do" she said. "But I don't feel much drawn to mechanics." She could see him cock his head to the left and lift his right eyebrow. "Not in _that_ sense, you wise-arse. Moreover, I wouldn't steal Edith's thing. Even though her driving is terrible".

"Says She-Who-Hasn't-Even-Wanted-To-Try! And at least _Edith_ did take an interest in the craft that was my job…"

"Well, maybe you should consider marrying her instead of me, then!"

"Not bally likely!" he answered straight away. "Granted she's a very fine woman, but she hasn't quite half the temper you have; it just wouldn't be as much fun to try and get her mad as it is with you."

"Careful there, Mr Branson, you're playing with fire" she warned. But while doing so, she couldn't totally prevent the smile she felt rising on her lips to show. Which didn't go unnoticed to him.

"And I love each and every minute of it…" he retorted with a devastating smile. "Sorry, love of my life, I'm afraid you're stuck with me… unless you change your mind, of course!"

"Well, you know what you have to do to avoid that dreadful outcome…" She suggested, slowly taking a swaying step closer and gazing at him intently.

_Oh yes he knew_. And he would gladly oblige. Like… right now! He started to bend his head towards hers, when she suddenly undeceived him:

"Exactly! You have to learn how to waltz and to foxtrot!"

Well, _that_ felt as if a bucket of cold water was splashed all over him. _All right, back to it, then_.

She went on in her business-like tone: "Now, put your hands on my waist."

On her_ waist. Oh. _Which dance was_ that?_

Tom barely set his thumbs, forefingers and middle fingers just under her ribcage, cautiously keeping the rest of him away from her.

"Firmly, Tom! You can't lead me if I hardly feel your touch!"

He gulped, and then rectified his hold on her. He tightened his catch on her waist, his pinkie and ring finger grazing her hipbone through her skirt, petticoat and corset.

He looked towards his left hand, mesmerised by the sight before his eyes. His hands suddenly felt very warm, in fact the whole room felt very warm all of a sudden.

His throat was dry. He swallowed hard. He felt his cheeks and forehead getting hotter. And his neck. And his ears. _My God, even my ears, even my lobes!_ He knew he was blushing all over his face.

And as always whenever he was touching her, putting his hands on her, feeling the warmth of her body, he wondered how it would be possible to stop, to finally manage to take his hands off of her, to not encircle her with his arms and keep her close till the end of time. How it would be possible to not fondle her… To not loose himself in that touch… in that cocoon of wellness.

Part of his consciousness was slowly drifting away, when Sybil brought it back to reality:

"Put your right foot forth, where my left one was before I moved it backwards, and put your other foot back so I can set mine forth."

He did. He sort of liked this idea of their bodies moving so attuned; better than mirroring each other, they were somehow _complementary_ in that stance. Like choristers singing the two different parts of a same score. Somehow alike, but still different. Their feet, without touching, were sort of complementing each other's. That felt so intimate. Yours forth, mine back. And then reverse; I forwards, you backwards.

He chuckled at this last thought: story of their whole relationship, until recently.

"What's funny?" she asked, a bit bemused.

"You. Me." he answered. "This. Us… Love. Love is funny, isn't it?"

She smiled. Yes. She was very lucky to love Tom Branson. To love someone who thinks Love is not just a grand, great thing, a very serious matter, but also _fun_.

Yes, she was lucky. She could have not loved him, only _liked_ him, or just _fancied_ him, but thank God she did finally fall in love with him. So now she liked, fancied _and_ loved him. Funny.

Talking about fun… She was looking forward to have even more fun with him. A _specific_ sort of fun. Though he seemed to be rather adamant on the "not yet" rule about that. Granted she was still living under his mother's roof, but he had just moved in the flat they had recently found to shelter their love and to serve as their first shared nest. So things were what she would call _settled_, now. Couldn't he see that?

Though, she was being suspicious that he could very possibly be getting back at her for making him wait so long for her answer. She wished she had a tenth of his patience: only a few weeks and she was getting very, very frustrated. Even though she knew he loved her, even though she knew they would get married, and even knew it would happen in a few days, she felt frustrated. And the man endured more than two years of even not knowing if she would accept to marry him!

I still amazed her.

But what amazed her even more was how someone capable of displaying so much patience with such a crucial thing could show so little of it with just learning how to dance: it'd been hardly a quarter of an hour and she could see he was already doing his best to _not_ fuss and stamp his feet out of restlessness and boredom. At least until she instructed him to hold her waist. To hold it _tight_. This seemed to have taken some of the edge off.

* * *

"Ouch! _That_ was my shin!" Sybil was beginning to think that it was _not_ such a good idea to teach Tom some dancing. Or at least to do it _herself_. A bit more of that and she would hobble up the aisle on her wedding day, and have her legs decorated with unattractive bluish bruises for her wedding night.

Well, serves him right on that last part, Sybil thought. And for the limping part, well, she would just use Tom as a walking stick! After all, this would be his doing, so it'd be just as fair!

Except she couldn't use him as a crutch while walking up the aisle. And as her father wouldn't be there…

She immediately did her best to dispel this unpleasant thought. Se didn't want to be sad today. She didn't want to be sad about her wedding. Hell, she didn't want to be sad, period!

And why on Earth couldn't she and Tom walk up the aisle together, side by side? They did leave Downton side by side, they did travel side by side, they did decide this marriage all by themselves, and without anyone else having a say in it. Why should they appear to be kept apart from each other just before their wedding, while this marriage was fully _their_ decision, _their_ doing? That was ridiculous.

"Ow" she suddenly cried, "mind your knee, please! And mine too: I'd very much like to keep it functional, it's quite useful for walking."

"I'm truly sorry, sweetheart" he apologised again, "I didn't hit you on purpose."

"I certainly do hope so!"

"I'm hopeless at this, Sybil, I'm sorry. I'm just making a mess of that."

"No" she lied. "You've made progress since the beginning. Don't lose heart!"

"With you by my side? Not remotely likely!" he joked.

She smiled at the pun.

"Alright" she said, "polka is maybe a bit tough. Let's go back to the waltz."

"Again? Didn't we try that one five minutes ago?"

"Yes, and it seemed you had gotten the hang of it. Let's practise a bit more, now; but this time, you lead, as you will be expected to."

"Doesn't it bother you?" he asked her.

Her blank stare told him he had to elaborate:

"…that the male partners are _always_ the ones leading, while you ladies have to just follow their steps…"

"Oh, don't start me on that!" she just answered, playfully swatting his chest; and he knew he hit the nail on the head, even though she probably did never really think about that particular fact until now.

"Anyway", she went on, "we're not practising for _me_, we're doing that for my sisters".

"Thinking about that" Tom reflected, "I suppose Lady Edith doesn't really mind being led by men, but I bet Lady Mary must hate it with a passion!"

They both shared a laugh before getting on with the lesson.

* * *

This could only be a dream. She was there, he was there, they were touching, she was in his arms…

He remembered those two and a half years of hoping, daring, _not_ daring, not knowing, barely _accidentally_ – or maybe not? – touching. Or rather _brushing_.

And here they were, holding each other close. Nestled. Nearly cheek to cheek. Inhaling each other. Holding each other's hand. Holding each other's waist. And holding it _tight_. Nearly blending.

She remembered those last two and a half years of wondering, fighting with herself, resisting, pondering, weighing up the pros and the cons, hesitating, not daring. Of wondering how he would feel (and taste!), of not daring to try and find out the answer to that. Those two and a half years of looking at the back of his neck and wondering what it would feel like to touch it with the tip of her fingers, to caress it, to gently put her lips on it, resisting the urge to run her hand in his hair, under his cap.

And here they were. Touching. _Very much_ touching. Though she'd gladly do with even more touching…

They were turning, whirling, swirling. They were waltzing, and he was feeling so light, so airy, so much as if he was gliding over the ground, as if his feet did not touch the floor anymore, that he didn't even trip or stumble, even though he wasn't used to waltzing yet, let alone _leading_.

But he finally got into the pace, picked up the rhythm, their rhythm, the one they set themselves, attuned and in step with each other. It was low at first, and once they became accustomed to it, it gradually increased, growing faster and faster as they went along, gazing into each other's eyes to see if they still both felt comfortable about speeding up the pace a bit more. It was as if they were drunk with each other, feeling more and more of their partner and of themselves with each passing minute, with each turn, with each step. With each breath. Their minds were overcome with feelings, with sensations. With emotions.

Tom would have never suspected dancing could be so intense. A matter of finding the right partner to do it with, he guessed.

_He_ was leading, and Sybil felt that in this exquisite state of self-indulgence and blissful oblivion, she'd follow him anywhere; to the ends of the earth, why not. Anywhere as long as he kept his hand here, on her back, or as long as his other hand held hers, as his eyes kept on gazing into hers, as long as like right now, they were as one…

She was burning to be embraced even tighter by him, she wanted to feel his strength hold her close against him, against his whole body, hug her again and again. She came to forget even where they were, to forget that they were in his mother's flat, that such behaviour was bordering improper.

By mutual and tacit agreement, as if on cue, they stopped moving. They were still locking eyes and, a bit tipsy from both turning and being in love, they smiled at each other. A shared smile… Sybil liked this idea. And "smile" evoked "mouth". And "lips".

Her look therefore drifted from his eyes down to his lips. His curled and very appealing lips. She lifted her head slightly, and landed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. And as he seemed very willing to cooperate, she then kissed him properly. Well, depends one's definition of _propriety_.

He marvelled at the feelings of their blended beings, of their entwined hearts. Her welcoming arms, her welcoming mouth, the breeze of her breath on his face…

His sensations got the upper hand on his consciousness. This imperious urgency to _not_ do anything else than yield to her kiss. This desire – no, _need_ – to drink from her being, to get soaked with her. He just _had_ to.

He was loosing his conscious mind deep into her mouth, along with his tongue. Was she inhaling his soul though their joined lips? Was she sucking it up trough his mouth? And if so, then why was it so marvellously pleasant to him?

This was so welcoming. This was _home_.  
_The rest is detail_.

* * *

"I had never thought about it" Sybil reflected, "but indeed I don't remember you dancing during the Servants' Balls in Downton. Or seeing you attend those, for that matter."

"And for good reason: I wasn't there."

"I still can't fathom how you can have spent 6 years working and living there, and elude the staff's big event. Granted it had been cancelled during the war, but still… How did you manage to avoid the Servants' Ball?"

"Very happily, if you should know" he answered with a grin. "Although Mr Carson was very insistent that I attend – favour of being bestowed an invitation by Her Ladyship and all…" he explained. "I'd even say he was adamant that I should attend. As were some maids, too" he added.

Her head jerked up: "Which maids?"

"Won't tell you; you'd play some nasty tricks on them…"

"No I wouldn't…" she said in a very unconvincing tone.

"Won't tell you anyway" he repeated.

"Wouldn't do anything to them…"

"Won't give you any name. My lips are sealed"

"Bet I can unseal them…" she ventured, leaning in for a kiss.

And yes, he opened his lips. But not to talk.

And then, slowly, while still kissing him, she wrapped her arms around him, encircling his chest and waist, and began to gently rock and sway the both of them on a low and silent tempo.

_Home_, he thought again. _I'm home._

They ended the kiss but did not part. They went on rocking and swaying, eyes closed, cheek to cheek, wrapped around each other, his hands spread wide on her shoulder blades, hers on the small of his back.

His mind was a bit numb, and for some time he wasn't paying attention anymore to steps, to feet, to technique, to anything that wasn't Sybil.

Then a thought briefly crossed his mind, and he chuckled softly before murmuring in her ear:

"And what sort of a dance is _this_?"

She chortled.

"None that I want you to dance with my sisters" she answered. "Nor anyone else, either" she added softly.

_I can live with that_, he thought. _As long as I dance it with you._

And he rocked and swayed as much as she did, picking her rhythm. Turning. Embracing. Feeling. Drowning in sensations. Very willingly.

They've quietly been at it for quite some time when he suddenly remembered they were in the middle of his mother's living room; although there was no one else than the two of them in there, they could very well be walked in on by Mrs Branson coming back home from work, and she would most certainly frown upon their lack of propriety and give him an earful.

_Tom Branson!_ he could almost hear her shout, _this is most certainly not how you've been taught to behave! And that's not the way I raised you! Shame on you, taking advantage of an innocent young girl! Not the way gentlemen are meant to treat ladies, _et cætera, et cætera.

"Taking advantage of an innocent young girl", as if! To say the truth, _she_ was the one initiating all this. Not that he complained, though, but if anything, _he_ was generally the one being taken advantage of by a very eager and more and more daring Sybil.

Innocent brazen young lady, indeed. It was getting harder and harder not to give in to her sweet advances. And now that he had tasted her kisses, her embrace, her arms, her skin, her mouth, he knew how more difficult it was becoming with every passing day, every waking minute, to tear himself away from those. Each time he just wanted to beg for a few more minutes holding her, kissing her, breathing in her, feeling her. Just one more minute, please! And then one more second. And again. Tom remembered that Saint Augustine wrote: "_Total abstinence is easier than perfect moderation". _How true!

And after all, what was so indecent in their current posture? Aren't two betrothed young adults allowed so much as to embrace each other? Couldn't they share kisses deeper than a quick peck on the lips? Admittedly, they were all over each other; but still, they were rather proper. They were just standing there, very fully clothed, hugging and cuddling, and _not_ groping. His hands were gently stroking her back – her _higher_ back – his face was simply buried in the crook of her neck, his eyes were now closed. Nothing wrong. Nothing improper. They were under his mother's roof for God's sake, and _that_ alone was somehow a put-off, nearly a turn-off. At least to him.

They were just enjoying some sort of slow and quiet dance in each other's arms.

Though… what exactly did he just feel a short second ago? Nope, impossible, he certainly had imagined it. Honestly! Thinking that a lady of such quality as Sybil Crawley could… AGAIN? No, not possible. He focused on the dance, the rhythm, the feel of her hair tickling his nose and…

AND AGAIN? No, this time it could not be only a wrong impression. Not anymore. First time, he sensed just a light touch, like a brushing, a bit too low down the small of his back. Second time, things were a bit more precise: a marked brush below his lower back. But this time, Sybil had plainly and simply just put both her hands on his… his…

No! Unbelievable! Moreover, according to the knowing smile she now dared to throw at him, and to the playful look she shot him, Tom understood that those moves were absolutely deliberate and not at all accidental. Evidently, she was accepting full responsibility for these.

Some sort of panic seized him, and he opened his eyes wider. What if his mother came home right now, and walked in on them like _that_? Furthermore, he wasn't comfortable at all with the idea of being pawed right in the middle of his mother's living room, under her roof. Even by Sybil Crawley.

And… Oh Dear Lord! His darling sweetheart had just lightly squeezed his rear-end!

"Sibyl, darling, what are you doing?"

"Err… I don't know…" she answered nearly innocently, her hands still in the same place.

"Well, _I_ do, and you'll be so kind as to stop that right now!" he said.

She drew back a bit, bringing her hands in more modest places.

"Spoilsport" she told him with a false pout on her face "you're no fun".

"I'll show you fun," he whispered in her ear, "and you'll show me too, once everything is settled."

"Promises, promises, always promises…" she answered in a low voice, with a wink and a smirk, before resuming her position, nesting her chin in his neck.

Then she tilted her head up, and she–

_Oh my God, oh my God, oh my– _Tom stammeringly thought, inhaling sharply. She had never done _that_ to him before, either!

She had first stroked his right earlobe with the tip of her tongue, and was now downright sucking it in and nibbling on its flesh.

_Oh my God!_ How could possibly something seemingly so simple feel so _great_? He shut his eyes tight, involuntarily stopped breathing, and did his best not to moan, not to purr. And very possibly failed at it.

_Oh Sybil, you are eating away at my resolve…_

Quite literally, indeed. At least for the _eating_ part of it.

And without thinking, he resumed swaying and gently rocking, bringing her with him; and his hands, with a will of their own, slowly slid down her spine to the small of her back.

And then downwards on.

_Oh!_ Sybil thought gleefully, _he's finally learned something. About time! Or is he just faltering a bit on getting back at me for all the waiting?_

_Hmmmm…_ His hands felt warm. This felt good, even _very_ good, but wasn't enough either. She had wanted to tease him, and she now was the one ending up being the one feeling tempted. Damn tantalizer! The man didn't know how attractive he was to her. Or maybe he did, and was somehow getting a real kick from keeping her longing for him? He sometimes was so… bumptious… complacent… smug… cheeky… infuriating…

Sweet… warm… caring… sometimes a bit mushy… somehow undaring… endearing… charming… adorable.

Irresistible. To her, at least. And yes, the cunning little fellow knew that, no doubt about it.

But she suddenly wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine:

"My, my! So what sort of a dance is that, Mr Branson?" she playfully asked.

"Well" he answered, "_you_ tell me. You're the teacher, here…"

"Having a teacher kink, Mr Branson?" she teased.

"Absolutely" he confirmed. "Mrs Flynn" he added.

"And who _exactly_ is this Mrs Flynn?" she asked suspiciously.

"The great love of my youth" he explained, sighing softly. She blanched a bit. "Unfortunately," he went on, "she was already married. And twenty-five years my senior, which doesn't really matter where true love is concerned. I told her so, but she said that although she really liked me, she didn't reciprocate. I was heartbroken."

"And what did you do?" she asked carefully, not really knowing what she should think of that unexpected confession.

"I went home, cried my eyes out, fell asleep, and turned eight years old that same night" he said with an impish smile.

"Oh you mischievous little devil!" she exclaimed, lightly swatting his chest once again. "I know you love teasing me!"

"That I do" he said with a bright smile. "But could we please go back to our lesson now, Miss Crawley? And to honour your pedagogical skills, if we ever visit Downton, I'll ask your mother and your grandmother for a dance."

"Well, my! I can't wait to hear what Granny would have to say about you trying _this_ particular posture on her… She'd skin you alive with just four or five chosen words!"

"You mean she'd have my _arse_!" he said.

"I wouldn't allow that: it's already mine!"

"Possessive much, aren't we?" he teased.

"Not my fault" she answered. "Your back looses its name with such good grace that I can't help but agree with it"

"You're quite the poet, here. But thank you for praising my charms, darling. Sometime I'll repay you with lauds of my own: I would have much to say about your own alluring curves, my dear callipygian seer."

"Oh, don't think sweet-talking will get you out of such a predicament: Granny is totally impervious to your charm."

"That much I had noticed" he said with a chuckle. "Doesn't matter," he went on, sending her a wink, "I'd just tell her the truth."

"What truth?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well" he said matter-of-factly, "that _you_ were the one showing me _this_ was how you posh people dance!"

"WHAT?!"

**_The End_**

* * *

_Note__: as I like self-imposed difficulties, I added four specific and totally unrelated things I had to slip in the fic (I sometimes do that, when I'm in the mood for that…)._

_For these occasions, I have a list of about twenty "prompts" or requirements and I draw lots (one, or two, or even five of them) for what I'll have to slip in the context. Sometimes it's weird (it could have been a veiled reference to Star War, for instance. Or quoting Pierre Desproges. Or insert a salacious spoonerism)._

_What came out this time is:_

- _any quote from Saint Augustine (_"_Total abstinence is easier than perfect moderation" from his autobiographical "Confessions")_

_- a quote from any song by Georges Brassens ("Your back looses its name with such good grace that I can't help but agree with it" = "Votre dos perd son nom avec si bonne grâce /_ _Qu'on ne peut s'empêcher de lui donner raison" from "Vénus Callypige")_

- _a veiled reference to any scene from the TV show "Kaamelott"_

- _a veiled reference to any scene from the play "Madame Sans-Gêne"_

- _the first and the last word had to be the same_

_Yes, I know, sometimes I have a twisted mind…_

_Anyway, I hope you liked this fic!_


End file.
